Page 31 of Lore of the Tides

Syrelle’s aunt, who looked no older than him, pulled him into a tight hug and ushered them inside. Lore was glad to see the guards remained outside, taking up a post by the door.

His aunt’s house was small, and none of the furniture was new or even appeared to have been crafted by the same carpenter, but the atmosphere was comfy and warm. A family lived here, and you could tell that this was a home filled with love.

“I didn’t expect you back for at least another year or so, Syr.”

“I can leave and come back then if you like,” Syrelle said with a joking grin.

“Oh, hush.” She addressed Lore. “Come in, love. Mind you take your shoes off, please.” Lore complied immediately. She squished her stockinged toes into the plush rug that covered the floor.

“Maple, this is my friend, Lore Alemeyu.”

Friend? No.

Prisoner? Yes.

Lore bit her lip and refrained from correcting him. Instead, she mumbled, “Nice to meet you.” She shook Maple’s hand, glad to see the smears of paint on her fingertips were dry and did not transfer onto Lore’s own.

“You as well. I’m Maple Gylthrae.”

“Gylthrae?” Lore asked, startled, and looked at Syrelle. That wasAsher’slast name. Hisfakelast name.

“Why, yes,” Maple said, her expression bemused at Lore’s reaction.

Syrelle rubbed the back of his neck. “Gylthrae is a family name. My mother’s last name, and mine as well, before my father insisted that my brother and I change our names to Jibrann to match his,” Syrelle supplied, his expression unreadable.

“Please sit down.” Maple fluttered a hand toward her couch as she headed into the kitchen. “Would you two like tea to warm you up?”

“She’ll take coffee, Maple, if you have any.”

“Coffee it is!”

Lore almost forgot to hate him when, a few minutes later, Maple pushed a chipped clay mug into her hand. She blew on the hot liquid before taking a sip. “Is that... cinnamon? And butter?”

“Yes! You have a sharp palate! I make a cinnamon roll spread that tastes good on—orin—just about everything.” Maple took a sip of her own cup of coffee and gave a happy, contented sigh as she settled her plump self into an oversize armchair.

The coffee table, Lore noticed, was laden with clay pots, an unrolled canvas sack with slots filled with brushes of various shapes and sizes, and a few different canvases covered in various stages of artwork.

“Are you a painter?”

“I am! It doesn’t pay for everything we need, but it helps supplement during the slow season.”

“Slow season?”

“My husband, like most around here, is a fisher. Soon, the water will be too cold, and the fish too deep. My art sales pick up at this time, when everyone is home and wanting portraits done or something bright to adorn their walls.”

Lore surveyed the living room. Portraits and paintings covered almost every inch of wall space. Most of the landscapes were clearly painted from here, with lots of blues and shades of gray from the seaside and cliffs.

“They’re lovely.”

“Thank you! I know artists aren’t supposed to be their own bard, but I am quite proud of my work.”

“As you should be,” Syrelle said. “I’ll have to buy another from you before we go; I would love to see what you have for sale.”

“No need to pay, as long as you brought me more of those paints from—”

“Of course. I know these colors are hard to come by, what with Galjien being so remote.” He dug into an inside pocket and withdrew a woven bag filled with what Lore could only assume were jars of pigmented powder that Maple could mix with water or oil to paint with. With much the same enthusiasm as her twins, Maple grabbed the bag and rummaged through it, delightedly remarking on the different tints, when Lore saw...

“Is that—sorry to interrupt, Syrelle, is thatyou?”